


A Man About A Dog

by ifonlynotnever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack (Probably), Dog(s), Fluorescent Animals, Gen, Poor John, The Hounds of Baskerville, fluff?, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/pseuds/ifonlynotnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock looks up at him confusedly. "Why? I told you I was going to see a man about a dog. You voiced no objections, so I gathered you were fine with the arrangement."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or: Sherlock gets a dog named Gladstone. <i>From Baskerville</i>. John does not approve.</p><p>(Absolutely non-compliant with Reichenbach. Just. No.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man About A Dog

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=90273046#t90273046).
> 
> Also, guess who has no knowledge of dogs. Or keeping them.

In retrospect, John realises that he probably should have noticed it sooner, but, to be fair, he'd had a few other things on his mind. Things like _If he ever experiments on me again, I'm binning that... whatever it is... under the sofa, the one that he thinks I don't know about,_ and _I wonder why Lestrade gave me that look when I said Sherlock was driv—oh, that tit. I knew there was something off about the licence._

And, yes, on the ride home there _had_ been the odd snuffling sound from beneath Sherlock's coat, but after those incidents with the lab mice and then the tarantula, John had learnt to ignore any and all strange noises coming from his flatmate's person. The alternative—actually _thinking_ about the sounds—was not at all conducive to either a happy living arrangement or John's mental health.

And, fine, Sherlock's offer to do the grocery shopping when they got back to Baker Street really, _really_ ought to have tipped him off, but at the time, John had thought his flatmate was still... apologising. Obviously, it'd been a very stupid, very wrong idea.

All of which amounts to John not observing what ought to have been obvious to him from the moment they left Dartmoor, thus landing the doctor in the state he's in now: sweaty and shaking and still scared half out of his mind, having just been woken from an awful nightmare about the bloody _Hound_ being in Afghanistan (well done there, subconscious, well _fucking_ done) by a glow-in-the-dark puppy that's just pissed all over his bedroom floor.

John does the only thing he can do at the moment.

He bellows _"SHERLOOOCK!"_ at the top of his lungs.

  


—

  


Half an hour later, John is looming over his flatmate, furiously seething as Sherlock sulkily and half-heartedly attempts to mop up the mess on John's floor with a towel.

The mess made by a _glow-in-the-dark bulldog_ smuggled out of Baskerville's top-secret, government-funded, Army-secured laboratories, where it was worked on by the likes of Dr Stapleton.

Who named it Gladstone, for some reason.

Right now, the damn thing is frolicking in the background, chewing at John's bedsheets and nuzzling up to Sherlock by turns.

"Explain," John grits out, his teeth almost painfully clenched.

"Explain what?"

"Explain this!"

Sherlock looks up at him confusedly. "Why? I told you I was going to see a man about a dog. You voiced no objections, so I gathered you were fine with the arrangement."

"You went—a man about—Oh, for..." John stares at his flatmate in disbelief. "You actually went to see a man about a dog."

"Obviously. Dr Stapleton's colleague left it with—"

"You do know that's usually just an expression, don't you?"

"...Ah."

"Yeah, _ah_." John sighs, sitting down on the edge of his bed and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look. We're not keeping the dog."

"What?" Sherlock actually has the nerve to sound bewildered. "Why not?"

"Why—You can't be serious. For one thing, it's government property! Experimental government—"

"Oh, that. Mycroft took care of it. Part of the negotiations to get into Baskerville: I do three as-yet-unspecified cases for him, no objections, he throws in a dog. He's owed me one since I was five, anyway. His stupid _allergies_ were the reason our mother got rid of Barbarossa."

Oh, god. Not only is that entirely the Brothers Holmes in a nutshell, but John resolutely does _not_ want think of the kind of hell-hound Sherlock would name after a famous pirate captain. Mycroft's allergies were probably the least of Mrs Holmes' worries.

John shakes his head and tries another tack. "Fine. But Mrs Hudson—"

"Doesn't mind. I asked her when I went out for groceries."

"The noise and mess—"

"I can train him out of it."

"Dogs are expens—"

"I have money."

John's lips thin. "I am _not_ going to take care of it, do you understand? I'm not feeding it, walking it, washing it, or in any way _taking care_ of it. And since you'll just forget—"

"Mummy said the same thing about Bar—"

"Sherlock!" John bursts out, frustrated. "I'm serious! We're not keeping the dog."

Sherlock looks down, placing his hand over Gladstone's head and scratching behind his ears. He sighs heavily, completing the tableau of dejection. "No. No, of course not."

John lets out a relieved breath. "Good. That's good. I'm glad we've come to an—"

" _We_ are not keeping anything. _I_ am."

  


—

  


Naturally, it only takes three weeks before John is the one buying puppy kibble, bringing Gladstone to the vet, and waking up at five in the morning to take a fluorescent ball of enthusiasm and slobber out on walks.

"You planned this, didn't you," John states as he towels down the dog in the middle of the living room. Sherlock looks up from his microscope, eyebrow cocked in that infuriating way that means _I plan many things. Which ones are we talking about now?_

To which John rolls his eyes and clarifies: "You counted on me getting attached."

"Hmm," the detective replies non-committally, the corners of his mouth deepening into a smirk.

"Bastard," John growls.

He means for it to sound threatening, he really does, but he's sitting on the floor of their flat in damp clothes, Gladstone twisting in his lap to drool on his shirt and lick at his face, while Sherlock glances over at them, very obviously trying not to smile, and then Mrs Hudson is in the doorway with tea and biscuits and treats for Gladstone, and all John can really do is think, _How is this my life?_ before he bursts out into fond giggles.


End file.
